“Mists” By Raymond Roy #writephoto

She leaned back into the tree hoping that her natural curves would blend in with the silhouette of the mature oak tree. She had run all night, her throat was parched. Torturously, a heavy mist hung thick in the morning air..she could feel the clay drawing all the moisture out of her feet. Sweat saturated her thin cotton work dress. Cotton, how she hated even the thinking of that word.

She could hear the dogs barking across the field, but she dare not look. As the fog began to dissipate, a curious squirrel stopped for a look, clacking it yellow teeth together emitting a territorial chirp. The trunk of the mighty oak was carpeted with a thick layer of moss it felt good against her scarred back. Subtly she turned and faced the moss. Like a butterfly gathering nectar, she pursed her lips and with a gentle flicking motion of her tongue, gathered the surface tension strained dew droplets from atop the many tiny moss rosettes.

She knew that moss primarily grew on the North side of a tree. She now had her bearings. North. To freedom.

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Published by goroyboy

Thank you for visiting. I am a First Nations, US Marine, Father, Survivor, trying to be the best citizen I can be on the giant rock hurling through space. I hope to encourage others as I have been encouraged.
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Bobby, thanks for the kind comment. Here is a little peak behind the original thought, the cotton dress she wore was going to be cotton prison uniform. The cotton material an the North facing moss transported me into the idea as an escaping slave.